


if your cascade ocean wave blues come

by featherx



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:27:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27680072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/featherx/pseuds/featherx
Summary: Two things:Linhardt does not own a cat.There is a cat in his kitchen sink.
Relationships: Caspar von Bergliez/Linhardt von Hevring
Comments: 14
Kudos: 88
Collections: Casphardt Minibang 2020





	if your cascade ocean wave blues come

**Author's Note:**

> for the [casphardt mini big bang 2020](https://twitter.com/CasphardtBBang), have my cheesy meet-cute rom-com apartment neighbors AU! can you tell how much i want a love life yet?
> 
> \- title from... oh, [you know](https://open.spotify.com/track/7MbT4I8qGntX4fMdqMQgke?si=-rV3BmAiQd6NncOH7bk2Dw)  
> \- **possible CWs** : food, family issues  
> \- beautiful art from [@chaiteaspilled](https://twitter.com/chaiteaspilled/status/1330738759638212611) and [@uppast3_](https://twitter.com/uppast3_/status/1330742458196447235) 😻😻

Two things:

  1. Linhardt does not own a cat.
  2. There is a cat in his kitchen sink.



Linhardt likes to think he’s a fairly sane, level-headed person; under normal circumstances, he would probably have just ignored the cat and headed straight into his bedroom, then figured out how to deal with it in the morning, if it would even still be there by then. But maybe it’s the exhaustion, or the sleep deprivation, or the fact that his head refuses to conjure any thoughts aside from what questions may be on the exam tomorrow, because instead of walking away and ignoring the cat, he starts, of all things, talking to it.

“Who are you,” he asks, which isn’t a bad start at all, really, until he remembers that, _oh, right, I’m talking to a cat._ “Why are you here,” Linhardt even adds, when the cat doesn’t reply to his first question. Not that he had been expecting a reply, aside from maybe a meow of acknowledgement, at the very least.

The cat is still perfectly unresponsive, long tail waving behind it. It’s black and white with bright yellow eyes staring straight up at Linhardt. Then it meows, unprompted, and Linhardt takes a step back in alarm. What sort of nefarious plans could this cat be cooking up in its little cat brain? “Get out of my house.”

The cat hops out of the kitchen sink, which is a start. It meows again, louder this time, staring straight up at Linhardt from the floor, and… okay, maybe it’s kind of cute, now that he looks at it. It must be hungry if it’s meowing this loud—God knows Linhardt hears meows like this all the time from the unit next door, actually. He’s only further convinced when he takes a few steps toward the fridge and the cat follows at his heels. “I don’t have cat food,” Linhardt mutters. The cat is undeterred. “Ugh, fine. Hold on.”

He searches up what human foods cats can eat while the cat makes itself comfortable atop the kitchen counter, then grudgingly digs some canned tuna out of his cabinet to heat up. Linhardt doesn’t even know what time of the evening it is, only that it’s probably late enough to be concerned for his own well-being, and he’d forgotten to have dinner earlier. Or lunch. Or… did he eat at _all_ today, really?

“Mrow.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Linhardt grumbles. He shoves some tuna into a bowl he rarely uses—though he rarely uses any of his bowls, to be fair—and places it on the counter next to the cat. He fixes up a plain tuna sandwich for himself and does his best to chew and swallow—every movement seems to take five times more energy than usual out of him.

He checks his phone—it’s 4am. That’s just lovely. Another hour or two and Linhardt’s going to be seeing the sun come up. His first class is at 9 in the morning tomorrow (or later), too… yeah, he should definitely get some sleep. “You done?” Linhardt asks, when the cat is back to meowing up at him. He finishes off the last of his sandwich, already feeling slightly nauseous, then heads over to the balcony; thankfully the cat follows, though he catches it sending the kitchen wistful glances.

Yep. His bedroom door is ajar and the balcony doors are open, the gap just wide enough for a cat of this size to have squeezed through. Linhardt can’t remember when and why he would have opened the balcony doors, considering he only uses it to dry laundry and he hasn’t been bothered to use the washing machine in almost a week, but whatever. “Go on, shoo,” Linhardt says, nudging the cat with his foot. “You live next door, don’t you? I can hear you in my damn sleep sometimes.”

“Mrow…”

“Don’t give me that look. Just go. Your owner’s probably…” Linhardt frowns. He’d meant to say ‘freaking out,’ but then again, it’s 4 in the morning. “Probably asleep, yeah… can you just leave already? I need to sleep too.”

The cat gives him one last pitiful look, before climbing up onto the balcony railing and leaping over to the railing of the unit just beside Linhardt’s. He steps back inside, pulls the doors firmly shut, and takes two long strides to collapse into bed, jostling the cluttered books and notes atop the sheets in the process. Exam tomorrow… then more classes… then yet more classes… and the deadline for one of his group projects is coming up, but, fuck, it’s barely even a group project anymore considering he’s the only one putting any effort in it…

Linhardt buries his face in his pillow, and idly hopes he suffocates himself in his sleep.

Unfortunately, Linhardt wakes up the next morning perfectly fine, if in a terrible mood. Even worse, the cat is back.

“What the fuck,” he grunts, pushing himself up on his elbows and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He’s definitely not still dreaming—the same black-and-white cat is there again, sitting at the foot of his bed atop one of his most expensive textbooks. Linhardt glances at his balcony doors—they’re open again, which is impossible. He’d shut them last night. Unless he’s misremembering, but that can’t be. And the cat couldn’t have opened the doors itself… could it have?

Whatever. Linhardt doesn’t have time for this; he has to get to campus and take that stupid exam at 9 in the Goddamn morning before all the information he’d painstakingly memorized last night disintegrates in his head. “Shoo, shoo,” he mumbles, dragging himself off his temptingly warm bed and stumbling over to the bathroom. “Oh, God, quit _following_ me.”

The cat, obviously, does not quit following him. It follows him to the bathroom, watching him brush his teeth and ignoring his various attempts to point it towards the direction of the balcony. It follows him back into his bedroom, staring at him as he shoves books and notes and calculators in his bag. It even watches him change out of pajamas and into some decent clothes, which is so unnerving that Linhardt dearly hopes it genuinely has no idea what it is looking at.

The problem becomes most apparent when it tries to follow him out of his apartment entirely. “Oh, no, no, no,” Linhardt says, pulling the door shut just before the cat would have slipped out into the hall, “no way. No. I am not going to be held responsible if you get run over or something.”

“Mrow?”

“ _Ugh._ ” How did his morning come to this? He can’t afford to be late—his professor will crumple up his exam paper and toss it out the window of their building if he’s a second too slow. Linhardt shuffles back into the kitchen, opens a cabinet at random, and tears open a tiny pack of bland biscuits, the cat watching his every move. He takes one of the biscuits out, then tosses it towards the far end of the apartment.

The cat is off like a rocket. Linhardt stuffs the rest of the biscuits in his pocket and makes a break for it.

He’s not even surprised when he returns to the apartment after yet another long, grueling day of classes to find the cat has now made itself at home in his bed. On his pillow. The promise of which had been the only thing keeping Linhardt going throughout the day. It even looks up and has the audacity to meow a greeting at him.

Linhardt’s tempted to kick the cat right off, but he’s not a monster… and the cat is too cute to kick anyway. “Get off,” he sighs, dumping his bag on the floor and clambering into bed. He plucks the cat off his pillow and sets it on the floor (it doesn’t scratch him—good), then lies down and lets out one of his many heavy sighs for the day. It’s late afternoon—he should still be able to get some work in later tonight after a short nap.

The cat climbs back up and snuggles against his side. Linhardt’s too tired to nudge it away.

When he wakes up, it’s to early evening and the cat still cuddled up next to him. “ _Why_ are you still here,” he groans, throwing an arm over his face. “I’m not feeding you again. I don’t even have that much food around here.”

“Mrow.”

Linhardt sits up, head spinning and black spots dancing in his vision. By this point he truly has given up on trying to find a way to keep himself from falling over every time he sits or stands up too fast. “Let’s just get you back. Again.”

He goes out to the balcony, cat following a step behind, and gestures lazily at the balcony next door, but the cat doesn’t leave right away, sitting back on its haunches to stare up at Linhardt. “What?” Linhardt sighs, crouching down to be more eye-level with the cat. “Do you like me that much already? You were won over so easily by some tuna and a single biscuit.”

“Mrow.”

“I wish I could live life as easily as you,” he mutters, sitting back and leaning against the railing. “Oh, to be a cat that knows nothing, just eats and sleeps and creeps into people’s houses…”

“Mrow?”

“This is the post-nap depression, isn’t it.” Linhardt stares up at the night sky. There aren’t any visible stars, obviously, but he pretends the flashing lights of passing helicopters are parts of a constellation anyway. “I shouldn’t be sitting out here talking to a damn cat, but what do you know.”

Still, it’s the first time he’s actually broken out of his mindless routine of studying, going to class, sleeping, and studying again. Linhardt’s not one for parties, extracurricular clubs tend to just use up far too much of what little time and energy he has, and his few friends are just as focused on their own studies as he is. When was the last time he even went anywhere aside from campus, the convenience store, and the nearby milk tea place?

“Mrow.” The cat bats his ankle with a paw.

“Yeah, I know, you’re not my therapist,” Linhardt mutters, glancing down at it—and blinking in surprise at what else he sees. “Wait. What’s with your paws?”

“Mrow?”

Linhardt takes the cat’s front paws in hand—the cat thankfully doesn’t resist or struggle—and stares down at them. They’re… large. It looks like it has extra toes attached on the medial side, and they almost look like thumbs. “Is _this_ how you opened my balcony doors earlier? You little shit.”

The cat looks pleased with itself. “Mrow.”

“Oh, just get going already.” Linhardt lets it go, and miraculously enough the cat finally listens to him, leaping over towards his apartment neighbor’s balcony. It meows at him again, and Linhardt, unsure of how to respond now, just gives it an awkward nod back.

It’s just as he’s stepping back inside his bedroom when he hears the _slam_ of balcony doors flying open from outside. “Hey, buddy! Were you out here this whole time?” someone asks, followed by a loud, happy-sounding meow. When did Linhardt learn to differentiate the meows from one another? “Aww, you must be hungry. Come on, lemme get you some dinner.” Then the doors close again, this time at a far more reasonable noise level.

The voice is vaguely familiar—Linhardt’s sure he’s heard them speak once or twice while he’d been outside in the hallway. So they’re the cat’s owner, he thinks to himself. Sounds lively.

Linhardt closes the balcony doors even though he knows they’re probably going to be opened at some point in the future. Now he’s sort of embarrassed. When had he made a habit of talking to a cat? Granted, the cat meows at him so often that it sometimes feels like it’s actually trying to respond, but still. It’s a cat. All it can really do is meow and beg for food Linhardt doesn’t have.

Whatever. He slides out his chair and opens his laptop, hoping he can get some work done for tonight—this group-turned-individual project will, sadly, not finish itself.

_Heard your grades have been falling again. You know you need to keep them up if you want to inherit the business? Behave and stop skipping class. Text me back soon_

Linhardt stares down at his phone screen—in the darkness of evening the light is nearly blinding, but he can’t bring himself to care. He sighs heavily and pulls his glasses off his face, folding them up and tucking them into the collar of his blouse, turning to look at the cat. It had visited him again today, a few days after last time, and Linhardt had been feeling nice enough to give it proper cat food. Why did he buy cat food? He’s not obligated to answer that question.

The cat seems to sense him looking at it, because it looks up from the bowl and blinks up at Linhardt. “Mrow?”

“Yeah, hi,” Linhardt mumbles. He sighs again, closing his phone and resting his forehead against his knees. He’s sitting on the side of the balcony with his legs folded to his chest, and this position is so familiar that he’s itching for a can of beer or a cigarette. “No big deal, cat. Just fucking tired.”

This time the cat doesn’t respond, though it does keep staring at him. Is that a cue to continue? Linhardt lifts his head up just to prop his chin atop his palm. “ _Father_ thinks my life is his to toy with,” he grumbles, though with how quiet it is at this time of night his voice sounds louder than he’d expected. “What’s it to him if I skip a few classes? As if something like _theology_ is going to do me any damn good. Half my papers are pure fucking bullshit I slapped into an essay generator and I still passed. What, am I going to need to apply some of those philosophical ideologies when I’m in the middle of a surgery?”

He groans and rubs his aching temple. “Fuck, I’m out of it,” Linhardt mutters to himself. Why the hell is he talking to a cat like it really is his therapist? Then again, for how much he feeds it, he may as well get something out of it too, even if he feels like an idiot venting about his personal life problems to, well, a cat. Not even _his_ cat, just the neighbor’s cat. “Hey, you have to be done eating by now, right? Hurry up and leave. I need a nap.” He needs to sleep, technically, but it’s so early in the morning by now that he’s almost certainly just going to be getting a nap.

“Mrow…”

“What, are you still hungry?” Linhardt reaches out to stroke the cat between its ears, and it purrs and leans into his hand. It’s strange—Linhardt’s never had any pets before, because Mother was deathly allergic and Father simply never allowed it, so this… He hadn’t been aware his chest could feel so warm just from having a cat lick his palm.

He stares down at the purring cat. “At least one living thing in this world likes me,” Linhardt mumbles. “Though even then you probably only do because I feed you.”

When should he text Father back? No, before that, _should_ he even text Father back? What would he even say anyway? Linhardt’s sure they had exchanged all the words they had for each other back then, the day before Linhardt left to get his own apartment, and it’s been almost two years since they’ve seen each other since. Linhardt would like to think he doesn’t owe that man any communication whatsoever, but he still pays for his university tuition fee for some ungodly reason despite Linhardt’s numerous passive-aggressive emails to stop already, so…

“Hey, uh… you okay?”

Linhardt jolts, retracting his hand from the cat before he accidentally smacks it. “What? Who—”

He looks up, and is extremely glad he hadn’t been standing, because he almost certainly would have lost his balance and fallen off the balcony altogether.

Standing on the other balcony across him is the most—well—none of the words Linhardt thinks of are safe for children, but suffice to say the man blinking down at him is _very_ easy on the eyes. He’s carrying a watering can in one hand, clearly to water the number of potted plants on his balcony, and—has Linhardt ever felt jealous of a plant before? Look, you can’t blame him. Those plants are getting personally watered by that gorgeous specimen of a human being, who happens to be perfectly _shirtless._

The man scratches the back of his neck, and Linhardt reluctantly tears his gaze off his chest. “Sorry, I just—I mean, I went out for—y’know, the plants—” He gestures at the offending plants, awkwardly—“but, uh, I happened to just sort of, overhear—I mean, you were talking about, I don’t know. Theology or something. Are you okay, man?”

Linhardt feels his face burn up. The man had _heard_ all that? Complete with the part about the essay generator? “You—collect your cat,” he snaps, getting to his feet and pointing down at the cat meowing away at the both of them. “And—And maybe don’t listen in to conversations next time,” Linhardt adds, flustered, before striding back into his room and slamming the sliding doors shut.

Did he just call his one-sided venting to a cat a _conversation?_ Linhardt wants to bury himself in the dirt.

He checks his phone—it’s the beautiful hour of 5:33 in the morning, which explains why the man is awake. He must have to get to work early or something. But, God, he’s probably laughing at Linhardt in the next unit over along with his cat now—seriously, a _conversation?_ And now Linhardt realizes he had snapped at someone who had sounded genuinely concerned for him, and, just. _Great._

Linhardt flops onto his bed with a long-suffering sigh that quickly morphs into a yawn. Right, he’d promised himself a nap. He throws his phone into his bag, just in case Father gets any ideas about double-texting him like some clingy girlfriend, and buries his face into his pillow.

The cat comes over a few days later once again, while Linhardt is in the middle of flipping through his textbook in search of a specific passage—this time it’s the middle of the afternoon, so he gets to see it opening the sliding doors up close with its huge paws. “You really are impressive,” Linhardt tells it, once it slips past the small gap it’s created and meows expectantly up at Linhardt. “How on earth do you do that?”

“Mrow!”

“Yes, yes, I know.” There’s probably no use looking for this elusive detail in the text anyway—Linhardt will just have to find something similar online to use as reference. He makes to get up and fetch the cat food, but pauses when he sees… something around the cat’s neck. “What’s that you have there?”

He crouches down and examines the cat—it’s a white silk ribbon tied around its neck, not dissimilar from the one Linhardt uses, along with what looks like a _price tag,_ of all things, attached. Linhardt squints at the messy writing: _MEATLOAF._ Is that supposed to be its name?

“What a terrible name,” he says aloud. He would understand _Oreo._ Or maybe _Cookie._ But _Meatloaf_ doesn’t even match this little thing’s black-and-white color scheme.

“Mrow.”

“You agree, don’t you?” Linhardt gets up and grabs a nearby scrap of paper and a pen, scribbles his thoughts down quickly, and attaches the note to the ribbon as well. Hopefully the cat doesn’t shake it off before it returns to its owner. “I don’t have any classes today, so you get to bother me all you like. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?”

The cat’s tail waves languidly in the air. Linhardt wonders what that means in cat language. “Why are you always here anyway?” he asks, heading out of his bedroom and unsurprised to find the cat following at his heels. “Does your owner not like you? I find that hard to believe. Speaking of your owner, did he absolutely _have_ to be shirtless that day? I have not been able to stop thinking about his… everything for quite a while now.” Where does Linhardt even start with what he had seen of that man? Everyone else in his classes are more eyesores than anything, so the discovery that his neighbor looks like _that_ had been quite the welcome one, even if said neighbor probably knows more about his theology essays than Linhardt would have preferred.

It’s when he reaches the kitchen that he sees the half-empty bag of cat food. Has the cat—Linhardt refuses to call it Meatloaf—gone through that much already? Granted, he hadn’t bought a big pack, but still. “Should I make you something instead?” Linhardt wonders aloud, looking down at the cat. It’s jumped up onto the dining table, staring up at him with those big bright eyes. “Well, it’ll do me more good than working on that useless paper.”

He searches up human foods for cats and gets eggs. It’s as he’s getting eggs from the fridge and turning on the stove that he realizes this is the first time in a long while Linhardt has made the effort to cook something, and that realization has him feeling how _hungry_ he is. Has he really survived this long only eating one or two paltry meals a day, or sometimes just not eating at all entirely? Time always seems to pass so quickly, when all he ever does is go to class, nap, and study, that consuming anything more than milk tea sounds like it would take too much of his time.

The cat meows at him, rubbing against his ankles every now and then, and Linhardt realizes the strain at his face muscles is a smile. “Yes, you’re welcome,” he murmurs, feeling oddly warm as he pushes the scrambled eggs into what is swiftly becoming the cat’s bowl and starting on an omelette for himself. Just the thought already has his stomach growling.

He should buy a new bag of cat food, just in case that one runs out without him noticing. Then… Linhardt briefly considers learning how to make meatloaf for Meatloaf. Haha… funny. Wait, he’d just referred to the cat by its wrongful name. “You make sure that note gets to your owner, you hear me?”

“Mrow.”

“He’ll see the light of reason, I’m sure,” Linhardt says, not sure who he’s trying to convince. He’d written ‘ _I think Dinner would be a better name,_ ’ which might be a bit too forward, but he’s got nothing to lose here. If things don’t work out, he’ll just go ahead and find a different apartment to escape the embarrassment.

Then again, that would mean he’ll likely never see this cat, nor its owner, again. Linhardt stares down at his omelette, wondering when exactly was the last time he’s had this much consistent interaction with a living being… even if it is a cat.

_…What are you doing—_

_Listen. It is your future at stake here, not mine—_

_No! This has nothing to do with me, this has always had_ everything _to do with_ you _—_

_—ungrateful brat, should have sired someone more fitting to be my heir—_

_—ran Mother ragged, did you never even realize everything you did to her before she died, you fucking—_

The sound of the apartment door slamming shut rings out in the unit, and probably across the entire floor. _Good,_ Linhardt thinks, savagely; maybe if he slams it hard enough, loud enough, Father will hear it from wherever he is in his _fucking_ hospital. With how much he loves it, why the hell does he want to pass it down to Linhardt so bad? Why can’t he just keep it for himself until his dying fucking day, let himself be buried in it too—

Linhardt tries to take a deep breath, and then another, but his lungs feel like they’re being squeezed to bursting and air refuses to go down his windpipe, and, _fuck,_ he thought he’d feel better being alone at home, but this place, this apartment, it’s never felt like _home,_ it’s always just been another place to escape to. He breathes and breathes and it feels like he’s drowning, suffocating, begging the atmosphere for oxygen and all it does is look down at him, neutral, apathetic, a hint of disdain, the same way Father has looked down at him all his life—

He drops his bags and runs through the entryway, to his bedroom, to the balcony. The early evening breeze is shockingly cold against his warm face; Linhardt lets his eyes slip shut, breathes in hungrily as his shaking hands somehow clamp down on the railing. Holding something steadies him, makes him feel like he isn’t on the edge of crumbling to pieces, and he leans against the railing for a while longer. _Not now,_ he tries to tell himself. _Fall later, stand now. Stand now._

But for how much longer? How much longer does he have to straighten his back and pretend he isn’t slowly sinking into the earth?

He’s not sure how long he stays there, standing and standing and breathing until he opens his eyes again, blinking the dampness he had squeezed out away. The city lights flicker and pulse before him. An airplane rumbles overhead. Elsewhere, a dog barks.

And—Linhardt realizes with a start as he turns to the side—someone is watching him.

“S-Sorry!” the man—his terribly attractive neighbor—stammers out, backing away and holding his hands up. He’s carrying a watering can again, though this time he’s dressed in a shirt, to Linhardt’s mild disappointment. “I, uh, I didn’t mean to intrude! I just happened to be out here already when you suddenly came out and, uh, I didn’t know what to do, you looked… well, uh, do you need help or anything?”

Linhardt can feel his cheeks beginning to warm again, more out of embarrassment than anything. Why does this man have to keep seeing the absolute worst parts of himself? First when he had talked to a cat like it was his therapist, and now when he had just been on the verge of breaking down. “No, I’m—I’m fine,” Linhardt grumbles. He doesn’t want to leave just yet, because if he goes back inside the apartment he has no doubt those walls are going to close in on him again, but he has no desire to stay out here and embarrass himself any further either.

He takes a step towards the sliding doors when the man suddenly calls, “Oh, wait! Don’t go in just yet, I’ve got something for ya!”

Linhardt frowns quizzically. “What do you—” But the man has already dropped his watering can and is rushing back inside his own apartment unit, footfalls loud enough to hear even from Linhardt’s balcony. He barely even has time to consider staying or leaving before the man is running back out, carrying… a box in his arms?

“It was a friend’s birthday recently, so I took some cake home, but it’s too sweet for me,” the man explains, sounding sheepish. “Maybe you might like it? It’s thanks for always taking care of my cat and feeding him whenever I’m out at work!”

Cake? Linhardt hasn’t had cake in a while, and he almost salivates just thinking of getting some sugar in his system. “Are you, um. Sure?”

“Don’t be silly.” The man grins. “Come on, it’s cake! And I promise it’s not poisoned.”

Their balconies are near enough that Linhardt can easily take the box just by leaning over the railing, and he mumbles some awkward thank-yous the man easily waves away. “Alright, well, I… I should head back in,” Linhardt says, unable to meet the man’s eyes. “It’s been a long day. This, er… This was… nice of you.” Judging by his behavior, though, it doesn’t look like he had picked up on Linhardt’s invitation for dinner. Perhaps he should have made things more obvious in that little note.

The man just grins again, wider this time. “Okay, get some rest! If you like it, you should come over for more!”

Ah. Maybe he had after all.

Linhardt trudges back into his bedroom, but he keeps the balcony doors open to let the air in (and possibly the cat, too). He puts the cake box in the fridge, then looks around his mess of an apartment for approximately three seconds before shaking his head and moving to fall onto his bed. Everything about today had absolutely exhausted him, from his 9am class to Father gracing him with that surprise visit at the campus gates, and if there is anything Linhardt knows will temporarily fix this, it’s a nap.

When he wakes up, it’s but a few minutes away from sunrise and Linhardt therefore has all of three hours to study for his exam later that day. He flicks his lamp on, throws his textbooks onto his desk, and is about to sit down and get to work when his stomach grumbles grumpily.

 _Hmm._ Linhardt casts the fridge a look, then heads over towards it and retrieves the cake. He takes a bite out of it once he sits down at his desk—it’s strawberry, good and tooth-achingly sweet. He stares down at his textbooks, but for some reason all he can really think about is the man’s smile and his ruffled blue hair.

Thinking about it, he knows enough about the subject matter to wing this exam. Linhardt digs his phone out and searches up meatloaf recipes.

Linhardt wings the exam. It does not go well, but that’s unimportant: when he gets home that day the cat is lounging on his bed again, this time with another note attached to its ribbon. Linhardt fills up a bowl for the cat, then carefully detaches the folded paper from its neck—it’s a crumpled receipt from a hardware store that Linhardt remembers is just a few blocks away from the apartment building. On the back, in scratchy handwriting:

_I alternate between calling him Meatloaf and Dinner now. What’s his real name?_

Linhardt holds his head in his hands for a few moments, looking down at the cat when it meows up at him curiously. “Your owner,” he says, “is an idiot.”

“Mrow,” the cat says, which sounds like an agreement if Linhardt’s ever heard one.

It’s only afternoon, and for the first time in an incredibly long while Linhardt doesn’t have anything to do for the rest of the day, no looming exams or assignments waiting on him. Normally he’d spend the day sleeping, wake up at night to lurk on social media or watch documentaries about whatever interesting thing catches his eye that day, then fall right back asleep after maybe an hour or two of being up, but for once the routine doesn’t hold as much appeal to Linhardt as it used to.

He finds his gaze drifting to the direction of his kitchen instead. When was the last time his stove had seen so much use? Since he had started living in this apartment, all Linhardt’s kitchen has really accomplished is gather dust, and now…

Linhardt waits until exactly 5:59pm before attaching a note to the cat’s neck-ribbon and urging it onto its owner’s balcony. Then he paces the length of his bedroom for at least five times, not even dragging his feet like always, until his doorbell rings and Linhardt hurries out of his room, hurries back in to check his hair in the mirror, then hurries back out after smoothing down every stray strand and opening the door.

His unfairly-attractive neighbor is standing there with a grin, Linhardt’s note— _I made too much meatloaf. Come over. You’re the cat’s plus-one._ —in his hand. “Hey! This _was_ a dinner invitation, right?”

Honestly, Linhardt hadn’t been all that sure about his meatloaf, considering he had just clicked on the first result when he Googled “meatloaf recipe,” but judging from how his neighbor—Caspar is his name, as he finds out—scarfs it all down and asks for seconds without a hint of shame, it _must_ be good. Even the cat stares up at him, looking remarkably similar to a certain pleading emoji, when it finishes its first serving. “This stuff’s _really good,_ ” Caspar declares, after going through maybe half of what Linhardt had made. “Are you a cook or something?”

Linhardt scoffs. The very thought is both hilarious and frightening, considering the amount of times he’s screwed up some more difficult dishes. “Absolutely not. I’ve never even had meatloaf before.” He can’t help preening a little at the praise, though.

“What, no way! Well, maybe I’m just hungry,” Caspar muses. He emphasizes this with another spoonful that Linhardt just sighs at—good looks aside, his table manners are horrid. “So, is this a thanks for the cake last time? How’d you like it anyway?”

“It was good. Thank you. I hadn’t had cake in a while…”

“Cool! Does that mean you like sweets? I’ll get you more next time. Oh, this means it’ll be my turn to provide food after today!” Caspar grins again. Linhardt is extremely tempted to sigh dreamily like some lovesick fool in a movie, but can anyone really blame him? “Thanks for feeding Meatloaf all the time, by the way. My work hours are kinda unpredictable, so sometimes I’m out all day and he gets lonely easily…”

“It’s nothing.” Linhardt looks down at the cat, which has now hopped up to settle comfortably on his lap. The weight is warm and comforting, somehow. “Where do you work?” They’ve been neighbors for a while now, but they’ve only really started interacting over the past few days.

Caspar swallows before speaking, to Linhardt’s relief. “Animal rescue! There’s a shelter ‘round half an hour from here. I got Meatloaf from there, actually, after his previous owner abandoned him.”

At the sound of its name, the cat leaps off Linhardt’s lap to clamber up Caspar’s instead. Caspar rubs it between the ears with a dopey smile on his face. Animal rescue… Linhardt supposes it suits him, or at least the general vibe Linhardt gets from him. Somehow he also resembles a dog… “But what kind of name is _Meatloaf?_ ” Linhardt wonders aloud. “Does he really like meatloaf?”

Caspar scratches his cheek. “Actually, I just like meatloaf, and I kind of named him on the spot… Anyway, it’s a great name, and it’s not like your suggestion is any better!” he hurriedly adds, at Linhardt’s raised eyebrows. “I mean, really, what sorta name is _Dinner?_ That’s just like calling him _Food!_ ”

“Mrow.”

“See, even Meatloaf agrees!”

Linhardt rolls his eyes. So maybe Caspar _really_ didn’t get the initial dinner invitation after all—at least now Linhardt knows to be more direct like on his second try. “If you say so. Still, wouldn’t it be nice? ‘Dinner, come have dinner…’ It would work with _Breakfast_ too.” Now that he thinks about it, it’s not a bad name after all, huh. “And _you_ named him after _actual food,_ so I have to say you’re not one to talk about naming choices.”

“That… damn, you’re right,” Caspar mutters, sounding genuinely troubled.

Caspar happily cleans off the last of the meatloaf and plucks the cat up in his arms on his way out the room. “Thanks for the food, Lin!” he calls, waving a goodbye with one hand while struggling to keep Meatloaf contained in his other. “See ya around!”

“Oh, right. See you.”

Linhardt stays calm right up until Caspar closes the door behind him, at which point he drops to the couch like a nineteenth-century noble swooning dramatically in his fainting room. God, when was the last time he had even had normal human interaction like that? All he ever does in uni is scowl at his professors when they turn their backs on him and leave as soon as his last class is over. Most of his friends study in different colleges, and—it isn’t like he _hates_ them, but keeping up with them, regularly talking to them, it all just sounds so tiring. Even now he’s starting to feel the exhaustion creeping up on him from the effort of, well… speaking, he supposes. Communicating.

But Caspar is nice. He talks fast enough to keep the conversation going, and even when they fall quiet it never feels awkward or tense—though maybe Linhardt has Meatloaf the cat to thank for that, since it never seems to stop moving. And really, if Caspar had been anyone else, Linhardt would have turned his nose up at the thought of someone he’d only known for a handful of moments giving him a nickname.

Because it’s Caspar, though, all Linhardt can really do is lie there on the couch and replay Caspar’s voice saying _Lin_ until he dozes off.

Meatloaf doesn’t visit the next day—which Linhardt had expected, the cat must be tired of him by now—but there is still something waiting for Linhardt when he leaves the unit for his 9am class. He nearly trips on a small, rectangular box sitting outside his doorway while trying to slip on one of his shoes at the same time. “What the…”

He realizes with a start that it’s a _lunch box_ —he’s seen this design before in a department store not far from here. Hesitantly Linhardt picks it up before anyone else can trip on it, examines it from every angle on the off chance someone hates him enough to disguise some attempt on his life as an innocuous little lunch box, then finally cracks it open.

There’s a small slip of paper taped to the top, safely away from the food. In now-familiar handwriting: _You look like you don’t eat enough and you mentioned you’d be busy tomorrow, so here! Eat on the commute or something!_

No sender or recipient name, but it’s very clearly from Caspar. The food is sweet curry on white rice, simple enough to have been homemade, and Linhardt takes a tentative sniff. It’s… good. Better than he had been expecting. He has to swallow back his saliva already—he rarely ever has the time or energy to eat breakfast in the mornings, and that might play a part in how lethargic he always is during morning classes. The lunch box is small, the perfect amount to eat and finish on the train to campus.

Is this Caspar’s way of paying him back for the meal last night? He did say it would be his turn to provide food next time, although he’d sort of just decided that on his own. Linhardt feels a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and hastily closes the lunch box and stores it in his bag before any other tenants catch up grinning down at curry rice like an idiot.

Hm. But then this means Linhardt has to get him something back too, doesn’t he? He has no idea what Caspar might like, aside from his dislike for overly-sweet things (horrible taste, in Linhardt’s opinion) and his love for meatloaf, obviously. But… he can’t possibly have all those muscles without hitting the gym regularly. And Linhardt knows one thing most, if not all, gym-goers have in common. He sets a reminder on his phone and starts digging in to the curry like a starving wild animal, ignoring the looks the other train passengers send his way.

It isn’t hard to drop by a convenience store after his last class of the day, poke around in the drinks cooler, and find what he’s looking for (after grabbing an armful of instant noodles for himself); once he gets back up to their floor he drops the giant Gatorade bottle on Caspar’s welcome mat and sticks a short note— _Stay hydrated_ —on it before ducking back into his own unit. Linhardt worries about anyone else possibly passing by and snatching the Gatorade up for themselves, but decides he really shouldn’t concern himself with it, because otherwise it’ll be all he’ll be able to think about for the next hour.

Two days later, Linhardt wakes up one morning to a heavy weight on his chest, and blinks blearily at the black cat curled up there. On Meatloaf’s neck is another note, this time a torn scrap of notebook paper: _Thanks for that good stuff! Enjoy your breakfast! Do you only like sweet things?_

Waiting outside for him is another lunch box, this time of tonkatsu, of all things—is tonkatsu even a normal breakfast food? Linhardt takes it anyway, of course, but stores it in his fridge first before crashing back onto the bed with Meatloaf next to him; Caspar probably doesn’t know Linhardt doesn’t have weekend classes.

It might just be the strangest friendship Linhardt’s ever had—their weird exchange of food continues, interspersed with notes from Meatloaf, and eventually it evolves into just an exchange, in general. Caspar gets him a book he saw on the display window of a bookshop, and Linhardt gets him a box of pain relief patches because it seems like the sort of thing he’d find use out of. Meatloaf travels to and fro, getting fat enough that Linhardt has to physically restrain himself from feeding the cat more food than it should have, despite the pleading eyes. He lets it sleep on his lap while he studies instead, and takes the time it chooses to splay atop his warm laptop as a cue to take a break as well. The minutes Linhardt usually takes to return Meatloaf to Caspar’s balcony before evening become nearly hours instead when Caspar comes out and starts talking to him.

It’s… strange. It’s strange, it’s weird, but Linhardt _likes_ it. The last time he’d really kept up a friendship like this… honestly, had he ever? Most of the people he knows are family friends like Edelgard, Hubert, and Ferdinand, and the three of them have always gotten along best with each other. (Well, ‘get along’ may not be the best term to use, but it’s the only one Linhardt can really think of.) Linhardt has never really had someone to call special.

And now someone has him looking forward to waking up everyday and seeing what Caspar might surprise him with, whether through a gift or a note or some stupid thing he did that day that he’ll recount to Linhardt in the evening. Linhardt starts cooking more both to feed Meatloaf new things and to pack and leave them outside Caspar’s door, and even one of his classmates has commented on how he apparently looks less like he’s about to keel over and die of exhaustion.

The warm tickle in his chest when Caspar smiles at him is certainly something, too.

“Hello, Meatloaf,” Linhardt greets, when he spots the cat coming out from his bedroom again from the corner of his eye. It had probably opened the balcony doors by itself, and Linhardt regrets not being there; watching it open the doors by itself never gets old. He eyes the takeout containers on the table—the food had been jostled around a bit during the train ride back here, but it should still be alright to drop off at Caspar’s later. “Did you come here because of the smell? Maybe you can have a bit later if you’re good…”

But he pauses when he turns to see that the cat isn’t as languid and relaxed as usual—its ears are flat against its skull, its slitted pupils large and wide instead. Linhardt frowns, standing from the table and leaving the food there. “What’s wrong? Saw a dog or something?”

There is a loud, answering meow, clearly frightened. Linhardt bends down and lets the cat scramble into his arms—he’s heard scared cats usually find hiding places instead, but it looks like Meatloaf finds more solace in somewhere, or someone, familiar instead. There’s some sort of argument going on outside in the hall, which Linhardt figures is what might have scared Meatloaf, and he sighs as he heads over to the door and pushes it open a crack to see who on earth is throwing up a ruckus in the middle of the day.

He stops short when he sees a familiar head of blue, and curses himself for not having recognized the voice sooner.

“I thought I didn’t matter because I was the second son! Why do you care now?” Caspar’s shouting, the words more understandable now without a door in the way. Linhardt knows this isn’t a conversation he should be listening in on, but he can’t bring himself to move or close the door or do anything except stand there, frozen in surprise. “Why are you even _here?_ I thought we agreed—”

“I’m _here_ because this is just ridiculous,” someone unfamiliar interrupts. Linhardt doesn’t recognize him, but he _does_ have the same shock of blue hair as Caspar, and there’s no denying the similarities in their appearance. A brother, maybe? “We told you to pull yourself together and get a better job already, and now I find out you went from bad to _worse?_ Being a PE teacher would have been better than… than… animal lover or something!”

Caspar opens his mouth as if to clarify, then seems to think better of it and glares at his brother instead. “No. No, you know what? You go ahead and—and call me a _smear to the family name_ or whatever you want, I don’t _care._ This is about _me_ and what _I_ want to do, and it doesn’t have anything to do with you!”

“You’re right about one thing there,” his brother sneers. “It’s always about _you._ ”

He turns on his heel and leaves, stalking down the hall and turning the corner to where the elevator is. But Caspar stands there a while longer, fists clenched and shaking at his sides, staring hard at the tiled floor as if willing himself not to cry.

Linhardt has no idea what he’s supposed to do here, but maybe doing or saying anything now might just make things worse—it’s a good thing he’s the only, er, spectator here, and he’s fairly sure if the argument had gone on any longer the other tenants would have started poking their heads out to listen in like vultures waiting for prey. Slowly he inches back inside his unit, careful not to make any noise, and tells himself he’ll just do his best to sound nice in the note later—

“Mrow,” Meatloaf says, and then it’s leaped out of Linhardt’s arms and racing across the floor to press itself against Caspar’s ankles, almost like it’s worried for its owner.

Caspar blinks. “Meatloaf?” He plucks the cat up and turns to look at the direction it had come from, wincing when he meets Linhardt’s eyes. “O-Oh, hey, Lin. Didn’t see you there! Uh… sorry you had to see that,” he says, giving a strained laugh and rubbing the back of his head. “It’s not a big deal. We’re like that all the time. You, uh—” He visibly scrambles for something to say, then awkwardly asks, “Were we too loud, or—”

“Stop,” Linhardt says. He pushes his door the rest of the way open and gestures inside. “I bought takeout. Come in.”

Caspar doesn’t even protest, just closes his mouth, swallows, and nods, and by the time he crosses the threshold and Linhardt closes the door for him he’s scrubbing furiously at his eyes with a groan. “You have got to be the _last_ person I want to see me like this,” Caspar grumbles, falling heavily onto the couch. The fragrance of beef bowl takeout is still heavy in the air; Meatloaf makes a beeline for the paper bags sitting on the counter. “It’s just so—he’s the worst, okay?”

“It definitely looked that way, yes,” Linhardt says. He’s been told he’s not the best at consoling people who are down, but perhaps that’s just because he had never really cared enough about them to try. He takes the food out of the bags and hands one over to Caspar. “Here. Er… it’s not much, but maybe eating will make you feel better.” When Caspar doesn’t react, Linhardt adds, “It’s good. The food, I mean.”

“Smells good, yeah,” Caspar says, sounding miserable still. He takes the bowl and stares down at it, and Linhardt hastily grabs him a pair of utensils thankfully nearby before taking a seat next to Caspar. “Thanks, Lin,” he eventually says, sniffing once. “I _really_ wish you hadn’t seen that.”

“Your cat ran in here all frightened. I thought something was wrong, but…” Linhardt sighs, resting his chin on his palm. “I might have preferred it if it had just been a dog.”

“Dogs are way better than that guy,” Caspar agrees, through a mouthful of beef and rice. He swallows, then adds, “You probably figured out he’s my brother, right? Yeah, well, he’s the _heir to the inheritance_ and what the heck ever, so he’s always been full of himself. I think the way he treats me now just feels worse ‘cause I used to idolize him when we were kids.”

Linhardt takes out his own bowl, though he isn’t hungry—he feeds strips of beef to Meatloaf instead, who has been waiting patiently on the arm of the couch. “Idolize?”

“Yeah, I mean—he was my big brother,” Caspar mutters, and Linhardt doesn’t miss the use of the past tense. “Always bigger and stronger and better than me. It didn’t matter much when it was just our school grades, but now he and our dad are even comparing jobs? So what if I’m a gym teacher or in animal rescue or literally anything, it’s not _their_ business!” He shoves another spoonful in his mouth as if for emphasis, then sighs. “But, you know, it’s whatever. By now I should really be used to it—it’s just that he hasn’t shown up to piss me off in a while, so. Yeah.”

All Linhardt can think of is that the beef bowl is definitely helping, because despite his words Caspar seems to be relaxing more, and Meatloaf trotting over to lie on his lap is another plus. Linhardt allows himself an internal sigh of relief. When in doubt, food always works. “If he comes back, I suggest using Meatloaf as a weapon,” Linhardt offers. “He might be able to put these paws of his to use.”

“Paws?” Then Caspar laughs out loud, sounding genuinely happy. “Oh, right! You noticed, huh? Don’t you think they’re adorable? His previous owner’s a total idiot who didn’t like ‘em and thought he was cursed or something. But you’re just so cute, aren’t you, you little loaf?” He sets his bowl down just to gently squish Meatloaf’s cheeks; the cat itself seems to be trying to make a grab for his owner’s food.

Linhardt has to admit Caspar is exactly the type of guy to say ‘cute’ and ‘adorable’ without a hint of shame. Stupidly enough, this just makes Linhardt like him more, like the complete fool he is. “I have to say, family problems… aren’t something I’m a stranger to,” Linhardt says, sighing. Caspar looks up from his cat, blinking curiously. “My father is much the same,” Linhardt adds. “Always telling me to do better and all. But I suppose we all get used to it after a while.”

“But you’re already better!” Caspar exclaims, then frowns. “Wait, uh, I mean, you’re already _great._ You’re in med school, right?” Without waiting for confirmation, he barrels on. “And besides, you only need to be better for yourself, not for anyone else. It pisses me off when people say that sorta thing, you know? Like, how is it _their_ business? They just wanna look good or leech off of your… betterness… you know what I mean!”

Linhardt blinks. Caspar had said so much so fast that he’s not quite sure which part to respond to first, so he settles for the last sentence. “I do know,” he says, smiling. “And, er, thank you, I suppose.”

Caspar looks vaguely surprised, like he hadn’t expected Linhardt to actually understand, but returns the smile with a typical Caspar grin. “Yeah, of course! You know—” He shovels yet more food in his mouth, somehow managing to keep it out of Meatloaf’s thieving paws. “Guys with shitty families gotta stick together!”

“Ah, so we can be each other’s family.”

“Exactly, glad you agree.” Caspar nods importantly.

Linhardt closes his eyes for a moment and prays for patience before speaking again. “Right,” he says, sighing and leaning back on the couch. “Exactly.” It’s not like he’s proposing marriage right after they’d just become friends, but at the same time, it wouldn’t have hurt to see if Caspar is the sort to get shy and flustered over something like that. It turns out he’s the sort of person who doesn’t pick up on it at all…

“I’d like that a lot, actually,” Caspar adds, turning to face Linhardt. He’s still smiling, but he looks more serious too, and for once he’s not talking while eating. “If we could be each other’s family, I mean.”

Linhardt’s heart most certainly does not skip a beat just from a shitty, cheesy, straight-out-of-a-romance-novel line like that. “O… Oh?” he manages.

“It sounds weird but nice, right?” Caspar asks, laughing softly. _Softly._ Linhardt’s head is starting to spin. “Being with family is like… being at home. Something like that. But I’ve never really _had_ anyone to call family, since my family sucks, and it looks like yours does too, unless you’ve got some real nice siblings or relatives I don’t know about.”

“I don’t,” Linhardt says, weakly.

“Well, hey, perfect.” Caspar pauses. “Wait, not _perfect,_ but—you get me!” He pouts at the huff of laughter Linhardt lets out, then clears his throat. “But, so. Anyway. Yeah! Let’s, like, agree that we’ll be here for each other and stuff. That’s already loads more than what either my dad or my brother has done for me anyway.”

Linhardt pretends to mull that over for a second just to see Caspar squirm. “Sure,” he eventually says, far too amused at Caspar’s relieved sigh. “Not like I have anything to lose. But this means we’ll have to stick to this… contract even if one of us moves out of here.”

Caspar pumps his fist in the air. “You got it! Let’s seal it with a blood pact or something! That’s what guys do in the movies, right?”

“A…” Just the word already has Linhardt going queasy. He shudders and tries to remember those breathing exercises his nice biology professor from last term suggested. “A blood pact… I’d rather not. A verbal agreement suits me just fine.”

“Aw, dang. Okay, next time,” Caspar unfortunately promises. “How about a secret handshake!”

“A secret handshake.”

“Yeah! Wait, I don’t think I’d be able to remember a really long one.” Caspar frowns, then looks down at his fist instead. “Should we just fistbump?”

Linhardt sighs. Finally, something more or less halfway normal. “Alright,” he concedes; it’s not really his thing, but it’s better than a blood pact or a secret handshake.

He holds his fist out unsurely, and nearly jolts back when Caspar bumps them together with a grin. “You should make a better fist next time, Lin!” he suggests, returning to his food right afterwards. Meatloaf’s ears prick upwards in clear interest. “But anyway, it’s sealed now! You can’t do anything about it. We’re family whether you like it or not, and this contract doesn’t allow refunds!”

“I wouldn’t know where to refund you even if I wanted to, so no worries there,” Linhardt assures him. Caspar laughs, loud and happy, and Linhardt’s chest warms at both the sound and the sight of Caspar back to his usual self—seeing him angry and frustrated and just absolutely dejected earlier had been too much to bear, and Linhardt’s infinitely glad he knows now that he can help, even if it’s just with a beef bowl and a bit of conversation.

And now… Even if Caspar means it lightly, being called his family still makes Linhardt smile. To belong somewhere, to be _home—_ Linhardt had never really been able to feel any of that with Father either. And now… and now.

He shifts closer. “Caspar.”

“Mm?” Caspar pauses mid-way through lifting his spoon to his mouth. The bowl is almost entirely clean now.

But… Linhardt pauses, frowns slightly. Is he approaching this all wrong? Does Caspar mean everything not just lightly but also platonically? They _had_ just been talking about siblings. Okay, so Linhardt is an idiot, but now what? He can’t have someone he genuinely likes thinking of him as a _brother_ or—

Wait. Someone he… genuinely likes?

Wait a minute. Wait. Hold on. Since when had—alright, Linhardt’s had relationships before, yes, but he had never actually really _liked_ them, just tolerated them enough and thought things might not be so bad if he weren’t lonely and by himself all the time but now when he so much as looks at Caspar it feels like his chest is about to explode and—okay. This is bad. This is a bit—this is bad. Linhardt may be able to handle his father, his classes, and a cat, but he is _not_ equipped to handle _feelings._

“N—Never mind,” Linhardt stammers out, mentally beating himself up at the crack in his voice. “I just… urgh, never mind.”

“What? Now I’m curious!” Caspar protests, leaning forward and now, Linhardt realizes, unnervingly close. “What is it? Some sorta secret?”

“It’s nothing,” Linhardt insists, injecting a hint of finality in his tone. He can’t just tell Caspar about this—he has to think about this first and make sure he isn’t going to make a fool out of himself and possibly ruin the one good relationship he’s made with someone else for what feels like the past year.

Caspar looks put-out but thankfully doesn’t press. “Well, thanks for the food!” he says instead, setting the bowl on the nearby desk. “I’ll definitely get you something just as good next time. And if your dad ever gives you trouble, just tell him I’m stronger than him, so he better not try anything!”

Linhardt imagines Caspar throwing a punch at Father and finds the mental image far more satisfying than he’d expected. “I’ll keep that in mind for sure.”

But now the fondness in his chest terrifies him, and Linhardt has to look away from Caspar’s smile before it can get any worse.

“Meatloaf,” Linhardt says, solemnly, “perhaps I should just forget about all this, sleep forever, and be at peace.”

“Mrow,” Meatloaf says.

“You agree, don’t you? I thought so.” Linhardt stares out at the city lights, arms draped atop the balcony railing. Then he mulls his words over one more time. “Ah, wait… that sort of just sounds like I should just die, huh…”

“Mrow,” Meatloaf agrees.

Linhardt sighs, perhaps a little bit more dramatically than necessary, and rests his chin atop his arms. Alright, _perhaps_ this isn’t actually worth dying for just so he can avoid all the extra baggage that comes along with troublesome emotions, but it’s so _hard_ when he’s never had to deal with… attachment like this. It’s just that people are naturally hard to care about, especially when Linhardt has always dealt with things best when on his own, but…

He sighs again, for good measure. But then here comes Caspar, upending everything he’s ever known about pesky things like feelings and emotions and relationships, and, well. Just what is Linhardt supposed to do now?

“You can stay here for the night if you like,” Linhardt says, turning to face Meatloaf. “Then again, it’s not like you’ve ever cared about my permission… you just make yourself at home whenever and wherever you like…” But it’s raining tonight, heavily, and it doesn’t look like the cat particularly wants to venture out onto the balcony like Linhardt. Good for it, Linhardt supposes. He’s soaked to the bone because he’d forgotten to bring an umbrella earlier that day and he’d missed his usual train, so he had to make the hour-long walk back on his own in water-logged clothes.

But he’s already been rained on, so staying out on the balcony—and in the rain—a bit longer shouldn’t hurt. He stares out at the view again, watching the lights flicker on and off, off and on. Wet hair sticks to his brow and the back of his neck; wet clothes cling to his skin.

Father hasn’t contacted him again since their last argument. Linhardt picks at his nails and wonders if the man has finally given up on him.

There’s a familiar, muted sound, and Linhardt looks up to see Caspar staring blankly at him from the other balcony—he looks damp too, although considering how Caspar is probably a bit of a health freak, it’s probably from a shower rather than from the rain. “Lin,” Caspar says, sounding both surprised and bewildered. “You—What are you doing out there? You’re gonna catch a cold!”

“Caspar,” Linhardt murmurs. Caspar’s blue hair is ruffled, possibly from being toweled off, and his eyes are big and wide and so concerned. “It’s… I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“But—” Caspar frowns, then ducks back into his apartment; within the minute, he darts back out onto the balcony with, of all things, an umbrella. He thrusts it out to Linhardt, holding it over the narrow gap between their balconies. “Here! If you’re gonna think, you should at least think while dry. Even if it’s too late.”

Linhardt stares at the umbrella. Caspar is offering it to him handle-first, and somehow that detail has his chest twisting in pain. “Even if it’s too late?” Linhardt asks, knowing full well he isn’t talking about the rain.

“Well, really,” Caspar says, scratching the back of his neck, “I don’t think it’s ever too late for anything. Just second and third and fourth chances.”

Linhardt stands there a while longer, then digs around in his pocket and fishes out something he tosses over the balcony railings to Caspar. He fumbles for a moment, nearly dropping both the umbrella and the object all the way down to the pavement below, but somehow manages to keep a hold on both. “What’s…” He blinks down at his hand, a number of raindrops falling on his hair.

“Come here,” Linhardt says, so softly he can barely even hear himself. “Please.”

Caspar doesn’t question or argue or protest, just scrambles back inside his apartment. Linhardt hears his door unlock with a _click_ a few seconds later, and then a muffled call of, “‘Scuse me!” from outside his bedroom. Meatloaf takes off at a dash towards his owner, but returns not a minute later atop Caspar’s shoulders anyway. “Man,” Caspar says, sounding adorably flustered, “no need to have _thrown_ your keys. What if they’d fallen?”

“I knew you’d catch them.”

“That’s… you trust me with your keys that much?” Caspar steps forward out into the balcony next to Linhardt, opening the umbrella over the both of them. Linhardt blinks, slowly—he’d grown so used to the rain that the absence of it is strange now, and he wonders if that’s supposed to mean something, especially considering it’s Caspar holding the umbrella.

Linhardt stares at him for a moment, but doesn’t meet his eyes—he looks at everything else instead, at his shower-damp hair and his strong arms and his one hand curled around the umbrella handle and Meatloaf, meowing, its tail flicking this way and that. When he finally brings himself to look at Caspar’s face, all he can really think of is how terribly blue those eyes are, and shouldn’t it be illegal to be that beautiful?

“Not just that,” Linhardt says. “I trust you, in general.”

Predictably enough, Caspar just says, “O-Oh.”

Well, Linhardt can appreciate the simplicity of his response. He leans against the balcony railing and Caspar follows suit, tilting the umbrella ever so slightly to Linhardt’s side. “What were you thinking about a while ago, then?”

“My father. Among other things.” Linhardt runs a hand through his rain-slick hair, just to keep the longer strands out of his face; he ends up flicking water droplets in Caspar’s face, but he can’t quite really bring himself to apologize. “I just haven’t heard from him in a while. I hope he’s finally given up on me, even if that sounds… callous.”

“Oh,” Caspar repeats, though now he sounds more sympathetic. “Well… that’s a good thing, right? You hate him anyway. But I guess it sometimes hurts still, since he’ll always be your dad… no, not your dad, your father… your birth-giver…”

Birth-giver… Caspar continues to impress Linhardt everyday with his eloquence. “I guess. I don’t know. I just—” It feels a little like all his hard work has been for nothing now that Father apparently can’t even talk to him anymore, and now Linhardt is torn between relief and disappointment. He himself doesn’t care about pride or honor or the family’s name, so what is left for him to do now?

“You know, if you need anyone to be proud of you, I’m right here!” Caspar tilts his head with a smile. “But you’re already great as is. When you talk about your studies and all, it sounds like you’re doing a great job.”

Linhardt shifts ever so slightly closer to Caspar’s side. “It still feels nice to have someone tell you you’re doing good, though.”

“Mrow.”

Linhardt strokes Meatloaf between the ears. “See?” he adds. “Even Meatloaf agrees.”

It’s the same thing Caspar had said back then, when they had been talking about Meatloaf’s (then Meatloaf-Dinner’s) name, and the significance isn’t lost on Caspar, who laughs and does the same. “Okay! Then you’re doing good, Lin. No, you’re doing great. Awesome! You’re the best.”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” If Caspar had gone on any longer with the compliments, Linhardt’s not sure what he would have done. His cheeks are definitely burning now, at least.

“Do you really have to think out in the rain, though?” Caspar wonders. “Like, does it actually help you with anything other than getting sick?”

“Haven’t you ever heard of romantic kisses in the rain?” Linhardt returns.

“What the? That’s not related to thinking at all!”

“Maybe not, but the atmosphere still helps.”

Caspar grins. “Really? I can indulge you for a romantic kiss in the rain if you want, though.”

Linhardt’s brain short-circuits. “I’m. Sorry?”

“Oh! I mean, y-you know, it was just—I was just kidding,” Caspar stammers, the laugh that follows after a tad hysterical. But then he looks away, avoiding Linhardt’s gaze in what is unmistakably shyness, and adds, “Just. Well. I mean, aren’t you used to this sort of stuff by now, Linhardt? Uh, not that I was trying to, uh, come on to you or anything, just—I mean—” He groans and shakes his head like a wet dog. “Can you forget everything I just said?”

“But I’ve never been offered a romantic kiss in the rain before,” Linhardt says, somehow managing to regain his bearings. His heart is still flapping wildly around in his chest like a caged bird, but now it feels more giddy and hopeful than anything else. “Who am I to say no?”

“Seriously?” Caspar squeaks. “Just like that? Hold on, I had something _way_ more elaborate planned, I was going to—”

Linhardt plants his hands firmly on Caspar’s cheeks, watches Caspar go through what feels like ten different expressions, then kisses him.

Linhardt does not like feelings or emotions or relationships. They have always been too complicated for him, too complex, and he already has enough on his hands with Father and classes and everything else about himself that even he doesn’t fully understand. There are days when he can’t get up from bed, and nights when he can’t bring himself back to it—there are days when the entire world feels like it’s out to get him, and those are the days he dreads the most, the days he doesn’t bother with fixing his hair or wearing decent clothes because there doesn’t seem to be a point to it all.

But Caspar makes things—easy, somehow. Perhaps not necessarily easy, but _better_ in a way that Linhardt can’t describe. He wants to wake up in the mornings. He wants to cook for Meatloaf and he wants to eat with Caspar and he wants and wants and _wants,_ wants to be better, too, both for Caspar and for himself. When was the last time he had ever wanted something, someone, this badly?

The kiss is a bit of a mess, because Linhardt is far from experienced and Caspar seems to be internally panicking. But it feels good anyway, when they tilt their heads at nearly the same time to slide their lips together, and when Caspar tosses the umbrella to the side and grabs onto Linhardt’s waist to pull him closer. The rain falls down in sheets, soaking the both of them after those few minutes of dry reprieve, but God, does it feel good on Linhardt’s warm skin.

He’s not sure when they separate, only that they eventually have to because Linhardt can’t breathe—Meatloaf has leapt off of Caspar’s shoulders to sit on the safety of the bedroom floor, glaring at them as if scolding them for being inappropriate in public. Caspar himself looks delightfully dazed. “I, uh, wow,” is what he says next.

“Yes,” Linhardt agrees, “wow.”

“I never knew kisses in the rain could actually be that romantic.”

“Now you do.”

“Now I do.” Caspar grins. “You mind if we do that again?”

They later find out Caspar had, in fact, not just tossed the umbrella to the side but tossed it off the balcony completely and onto the street, and it had nearly been run over by some passing car, the poor thing. And while Linhardt doesn’t wake up the next morning to a warm body beside him, he does wake up to Meatloaf mushing its large paws against his chest, a new note—the paper from a notepad on Linhardt’s desk—attached to its neck.

_Early shift today but I made breakfast :) See u later!_

From the smell alone Linhardt can tell Caspar made pancakes. He lies in bed a little longer, gathering Meatloaf up against his chest, and smiles like an idiot.

 _Family._ It was a concept he had never placed much importance in, not after Mother died and left him alone with Father, alone in the world with no one who genuinely cared about him. And maybe he should have tried a little harder to get along with people, should have talked to them more, should have made an effort—but maybe that’s something he can leave for another day. Dealing with, and eventually confronting, Father is something he can leave for another day too.

For now, he closes his eyes and inhales the lingering scent of Caspar still on the sheets, and the fragrance of pancakes drifting in from his ajar bedroom door, and, of course, Meatloaf’s fur. For now, he’s at home.

**Author's Note:**

> almost all the food mentioned here (omelettes, sweet curry rice, tonkatsu, pancakes...) are just what i was craving most while i was writing those scenes. yeah i was craving omelettes at 11 in the evening.
> 
> thanks for reading! find me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/featherxs)


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